


throw away my faith (just to keep you safe)

by Hiyami



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Homelessness, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Out of Character, Panic Attack, Sick Stiles, Stiles-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-11-18 19:18:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hiyami/pseuds/Hiyami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>HIATUS.</p><p>And as he’s getting ready to head out to help them, his father says, “If you walk out that door, don’t bother coming back.” </p><p>It’s a simple enough statement, but it means so much more. Stiles swallows hard as he feels something deep within him seizing as he understands. This is his last connection to his mother – the last connection he’s got to being normal. But he can’t. He just can’t. He can’t sit here and do nothing when Scott and Derek and Lydia and even Jackson and Peter are all out there doing their best to keep each other safe. </p><p>“I know,” he hears himself saying, his voice choked. “But I have to.” And his father turns his back on him – turns away, refuses to even look at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Get out your guns, battle's begun

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first venture into fanfiction on ao3 and while I'm terrified of criticisms, reading others' reviews has led me to believe that most of the criticism here is fairly constructive, which I would greatly appreciate. I have "Out of Character" as a warning because for a large part of the beginning, several of the characters are acting beyond their normal parameters because Stiles is acting differently himself. Feel free to comment, however, as any irregularities noted may be unintentional.

This is how it starts.

At first, it’s not a big deal. Some late nights, broken curfews. Maybe a lot of gas and mileage without a lot of explanation. There’s a lot of unanswered questions and he just can’t say anything to his father – he _can’t._ He can’t bring his father into this giant mess. But he also can’t explain how things came to a head like this. Looking back, it’s easier to see the way things snowballed, becoming bigger and bigger and more and more difficult for his father to just swallow down: strange people coming into the house, finding Stiles out at all hours, losing his job... More and more, he'd put pressure on his father just by existing. But he still couldn’t say anything and now it’s come to this.

The wolves are out and on high alert. No one’s really sure what the Alpha pack wants, but no one really wants to risk being caught off guard again.

And as he’s getting ready to head out to help them, his father says, “If you walk out that door, don’t bother coming back.”

It’s a simple enough statement, but it means so much more. Stiles swallows hard as he feels something deep within him seizing as he understands. This is his last connection to his mother – the last connection he’s got to being _normal_. But he can’t. He just _can’t._ He can’t sit here and do nothing when Scott and Derek and Lydia and even Jackson and Peter are all out there doing their best to keep each other safe.

“I know,” he hears himself saying, his voice choked. “But I have to.” And his father turns his back on him – turns away, refuses to even look at him.

Stiles only has a ten dollar bill and some change in one pocket and his phone and a pocketknife in the other. He’s got a windbreaker with a pen and small notebook in it. He can walk away with what he’s got, but after that, it’s the end.

“I’ll leave the jeep,” he says as he steps out, “You can take better care of it.”

-

It’s not easy. It’s just as well that he’d forced himself through the door that night, though, because he’d been there when they’d needed his help – he’d given them those precious extra few minutes when he’d cracked one of the alphas over the head with a cold, broken off piece of metal piping that he’d passed by on the street as he’d run to his friends.

He’d saved Scott’s life.

They go back to the old burnt down Hale house to patch each other up and recover – wounds left by an Alpha last, after all – and eventually they all begin to leave, one by one, until only Derek and Peter and Stiles remain. Stiles is just questioning the changing temperatures and whether he wants to risk sleeping outside or not when he notices Peter and Isaac talking and Derek’s eying him like he’s questioning why he’s still there. And Stiles – Stiles can’t say anything here, either. He feels mute and frozen, but since he didn’t really take any hits, he gives Derek a sardonic salute before stepping outside to start the long trek back into town.

He sleeps in a back alleyway, his form hidden by a dumpster and his body warmed by his jacket. It’s not cold yet and thank god for that. He’s hungry once all the adrenaline wears off, but he can’t afford to spend his money yet. Not now. He’s not hungry enough for that yet.

-

He wakes up cold and stiff and aches in places he didn’t know he could, but he’s okay. He’s hungry, but he’s still alive – a night out on the streets hasn’t killed him. He checks the time on his phone and realizes he’s still got hours until school starts because he woke up when the light hit him. He gives himself a shake and stands up to stretch, though his efforts are futile – the aches remain. Giving up once he realizes this, Stiles starts walking towards the school instead. He’s never been the fastest of people and he doesn’t have the jeep anymore. It’s a bitter taste in his mouth and a heavy weight in his gut, but he doesn’t know what to say or do to make things alright again so he just keeps walking.

Thankfully, his books and most of his schoolwork are at school, so despite a few awkward and stilted explanations about homework, he makes it through to the end of the day alright. He’s able to eat both breakfast and lunch thanks to the large tab schools set up at the beginning. Parents give them the money ahead of time and the meals that students take each day are paid for out of that tab.

If it’s money already spent, he rationalizes, then it won’t matter to his father.

He makes an effort to act the same as usual in all of his classes – this is a family problem, dammit – and jokes around with Scott, annoys Jackson, and occasionally comments on how pretty Lydia’s looking today. His ploy works, though, and no one looks at him oddly for wearing the same clothes as the night before.

Once he’s finished eating his lunch, he tells them he’s got a meeting to get to and heads over to Finstock’s classroom. He’s got a class in session, but they’re doing busywork in the shape of worksheets so he knows he can talk to him. He knocks on the open doorway before stepping in to engage the lacrosse coach at his desk.

He doesn’t quite remember what he says, but he vaguely remembers making up some bullshit excuse to explain that he was quitting the team.

Finstock had been startled and loud and curious, but Stiles had laughed it off and shrugged and continued to spin the story until the bell rang and he’d headed towards his next class.

At the end of the day, instead of gearing up for lacrosse practice like he’d used to, he’s in the library instead, doing all of the homework he won’t be able to do at home anymore. It’s hard to concentrate – his Adderall has long since worn off and now his body’s demanding more – but he manages to get it done. Afterwards, he chucks everything back into his locker before walking out into the parking lot. The team is still practicing and though he can see Scott and Jackson sniff the air to turn towards him, there’s not much they can do when they’ve got coach whistling them through their drills. He’ll have to explain it tomorrow, he knows, but right now, he’s got more important things on his mind.

He starts walking again.

By the end of the day he’s applied to a few different stores in the area and he’s bought a box of cereal – he’s forcing himself to eat just two handfuls for dinner before curling into a ball behind the dumpster from yesterday. He’s still hungry, but he’s only got four dollars and eighty-six cents after buying the box and he’s got to make it last. He uses his phone sparingly aside from telling Scott and Jackson that he’d explain tomorrow when they start texting him, demanding to know why he’d quit the team.

He stares at the side of the dumpster for a long time, eyes tired and heart heavy. He feels numb. Though he can feel the weight in his chest, he can’t seem to process his feelings just yet. His mind wanders and he wonders if it’s because his stomach’s loud and aggressive protests are taking center stage. His body still hurts all over and he’s still got that crick in his neck.

He lets himself wonder, for only a few minutes, if it was worth it – being cast out of his home, cut off from all of his things and worldly possessions and _his father_ – to go and help his friends.

When those few minutes are up, though, he ruthlessly crushes that side of him down with all of the possibilities of what could have happened if he’d stayed home. Scott probably would have been seriously injured if he hadn’t died. The world might have discovered that Beacon Hill housed werewolves when Scott had to go into the emergency room. Over and over again, he goes over the number of ways things could have gone bad and how that would have hurt so much more.

At least this way, his father’s alive and even if his dad will hate him, Stiles will know that his father is _safe_ and that’s so much more than he can say about the others. He tells himself that he matters and that what he’d done made a difference and that it was _worth the cost_. Well worth it, dammit.

He doesn’t think he can cope if it wasn’t. In the last few moments before he feels himself giving over to another night of sleeping outside, he wonders briefly if he’ll be able to do this and tells himself he’s got no choice.

When morning comes again, he hurts even more and he can’t stop shivering. He lets himself have another handful of Special K before he heads towards school, the box firmly closed but in hand. He arrives even earlier than he had the day before – by an hour at least – and stows the box in his locker before taking a moment in the bathroom to wash his face, pee, and do his best to clean his teeth with a finger. Once he’s decided that he’s as acceptable as he can be, he heads back out to check and see if any of the stores have opened yet. The pharmacy and grocery store turn him down. The library, though, asks him to come back later for an interview.

He’s hopeful and heads back to school with a loose limbed walk, trying to ease the pain in his muscles. When he gets to the parking lot, though, he’s stopped in his tracks by Scott, who’s got Lydia and Jackson right behind him, and Isaac’s heading towards the group, too.

“Stiles!” he calls. Knowing that he owes his friends some answers, Stiles pivots and heads over to them, waving to let them know he’s heard him.

“What’s up?” he asks as soon as he gets close enough. “Did you finish all of those chemistry questions yesterday? Those were tough, huh?” He’s trying to distract them with his babbling, but he’s trying too hard and he knows it as soon as he realizes that no one’s responding and they’re all looking at him.

“What?” he asks, genuinely concerned now. He still hurts all over, but if this is serious then he’ll happily lend a hand.

Scott looks distinctly uncomfortable and Lydia looks furious. Jackson, though – he can’t seem to decide between whether he wants to be a dick or not. Of course, that’s his usual face, so Stiles ignores it. Isaac, though, Isaac’s looking at him with the saddest kicked puppy look he possibly could have come up with. “What’s wrong?”

“Stiles, you’re wearing the same clothes as yesterday,” Lydia bites out in the fast-paced voice she gets whenever she’s angry. “And you stink.”

Stiles starts, surprised. He’d guessed they’d pick up on the clothes, but he hadn’t considered the smell. He probably reeked after two days by a dumpster and without a shower.

“Yeah?” he says, looking for the segue. He’s confused and tired and doesn’t really understand what’s going on. He doesn’t have to worry about it for too long, though, because Scott picks up right where Lydia started.

“I called your house yesterday when you wouldn’t pick up when I called you.” Immediately, Stiles feels like he’s been suckerpunched in the gut.

“Yeah?” he asks again. Only this time he can hear how his voice comes out sounding like he’s been strangled and he’s breathing too fast and _shit now they know and what am I going to say? How do I explain this isn’t anyone’s fault? What do I do?_ And his vision starts narrowing for moment as he feels himself panicking, his body shutting down all the wrong functions to keep him operating and he’s falling only he’s not because someone’s holding him up and how does he breathe he needs oxygen how does he _breathe?!_

“Stiles, breathe!” He hears a voice but it’s not Scott or Jackson or Isaac and it sounds like Derek, but Derek doesn’t have a reason to be here. He’s still struggling to breathe and he can’t be bothered to struggle against the grip that’s holding his arm – it’s keeping him upright and he has to take what he can, right?

“Breathe with me,” the voice – and somehow, he’s sure now that it’s Derek – says and Stiles wants to – really, he does, because he doesn’t doubt it’d feel a lot better than what he’s doing right now – but he can’t and then all he knows is black.

And this is still only the beginning.

-

When he wakes up, he comes to all at once, jolting upright and cursing while he does it. He gropes around for his phone, but when he tries to check the time, it turns out it’s off, the battery dead. Still, it’s dark and even the moonlight that floods into the room does little to illuminate his way as he tries to pick a path out to the door.

He knows where he is – the Hale house. He’d known it from the moment he’d woken up and realized the windows were large and smoky, but still transparent. What he doesn’t know is how he got here or why or if he’ll still be able to try for that interview tomorrow because it’s clearly too late now when the moon’s up and the sun is no longer shining. He does loathe leaving, even as he turns down the covers of the bed. The warmth is a welcome reprieve after the last two nights and the fact that he’s sleeping in an actual _bed_ is an even greater luxury. On the other hand, he can’t help but feel that this is between him and his father and is inherently his own fault. It’s only fair for him to deal with this himself. 

He ends up staring at the pattern of the blanket for a good ten minutes, though, his eyes tracing over the quilted pattern until he feels absolutely dizzy with it. Although he hates himself for the weakness even as he feels the shivers coming on – withdrawal was the worst, it really fucking sucked – he can’t help but want to stay. Just for a little longer. He doesn’t want to think about the missed classes and late homework and all of the ways he’s fucked up in the last few months, but as soon as his mind catches onto the downward spiral of thoughts running through his head, it naturally picks it up and runs with it, keeping his mind focused on all of the different ways he could have done things better.

Stiles eventually falls back asleep, but he doesn’t do it willingly. He doesn’t know it, but he’s crying and although they might not be in the same room, there are three other wolves in the damaged house and there’s not a one of them that can’t identify the scent. 


	2. Are you a saint or a sinner?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek's side of things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I realized as I was writing this that I was having a lot of difficulty trying to keep things in present tense - it just didn't fit right - and so I went back and reworked it so it became this. It's a bit rough, but I really wanted to get it out by today for all of the kind and patient reviewers. I cut out some of the extra floundering that I'd done, but I'm not sure I got it all so I'm still not sure how I feel about it in terms of writing quality, but on the bright side I think I might have accidentally thrown a bit of slow burn Sterek in here. Maybe. I hope this meets your expectations! This is unbeta'd so all mistakes are my own. Constructive criticisms are much appreciated (as well as any advice)!
> 
> Also, Merry Christmas!

“What,” Derek growled into his cell, “Do you want?”

He couldn’t be blamed. Midnight was only a few minutes away and he’d been sleeping. This had better be a damned big emergency. His mind was a bit blurred by sleep, so it took him a few minutes to realize what Scott was babbling into his ear. Shock settled in, and then anger.

“What do you mean by his father put him out of his house?” he asked carefully. He was pretty sure exactly what that meant, but this was _Scott_ and he really couldn’t imagine the Sheriff of all people kicking his son out of his own home. A few more minutes of listening to Scott’s panicked speech had him scowling. “You didn’t try tracking him?”

There was a sudden pause before there was yet another burst of almost incoherent _whining_. Christ, it was like the kid had completely forgotten what he’d originally been calling for as his mind was flooded with _AllisonAllisonAllison!_ Not that Derek could blame him. Attraction for wolves was a strong and sometimes terrible thing. But seriously? Priorities. While he was forced to admit that he’d probably – _no, definitely_ – been worse in his youth, Scott was also faced with a completely different set of circumstances and the precautions and warning signs in his path were blaring with the volume on max.

“Fine. It’s too late to try tonight – the trail has probably gone cold anyways. I’ll be at your school tomorrow morning.” Derek hung up without bothering to wait for a response. Since it was Scott, it was pointless to think he’d get anything useful – not while he had Allison on the mind.

He’d been surprised, but figured it was something easily resolved. After all, Stiles was just another teenager. Yeah, he had a tendency to get himself entangled in a lot of supernatural situations, but that was all there was to it. Family was important – that was one of Derek’s core beliefs. It always had been, which had made Peter’s betrayal all the more painful and his return both a blessing and a strain.

Regardless, Stiles was just a teenager. However helpful he was – and had been, particularly last night – there was no denying that he had frequently and without fail said the wrong thing at the wrong time. His ability to stick his foot in his mouth amazed Derek. While it wasn’t something that was _Stiles_ specifically, it was something he did often when he was panicked. Of course, Derek noticed that the human was panicked frequently. Certainly, he was excitable.

Grumbling, he tossed his phone over into the corner of the room and rolled over. Screw this teenager bullshit. He was going back to bed.

-

The panic attack had been unexpected. When he’d arrived at the school – as he’d promised Scott – he found that he’d come upon the group attempting to converge upon a hunched figure. As they surrounded him, he couldn’t help but note that it was very pack-like behavior. Of course, for what they were trying to do, it was all wrong.

He shut the door behind him and sprinted the short distance to the group and gave a warning growl. The others backed off and he saw Stiles, his face pale and expression somewhere between confused and hurt. The wolf in Derek gave a roar at that – he’d been expecting anger or calm. Some sort of deliberate move on Stiles’ part in order to get what he wanted; he was manipulative like that. While he liked to keep things civil, Derek had no doubt that Stiles was a snake. Not like Jackson – no, Jackson was obvious and hardly subtle about his intentions.

Stiles was in a completely different league. He telegraphed his emotions so loudly that anyone who thought they knew him missed all of the underlying messages. Derek had wondered, a time or two, what Stiles had gone through that had him guarding himself from everyone. He wondered if Stiles even knew he was doing it. Of course, then he stopped thinking about it, because otherwise he’d have to admit that there were more than just a few parallels there and none of that was something he was ready to deal with.

Which was why he hadn’t expected the panic attack. He tried not to think about Stiles as a whole and yet here he was, right in front of him, clearly trying to draw breath and failing utterly. Derek caught him just as he landed on his knees, and despite his order to breathe, Stiles blacked out.

Derek hadn’t been expecting that either. What the hell was he supposed to do with him? Still, a quick look at all the others told him immediately that they didn’t know what to do. Isaac whined and Scott looked only the slightest bit guilty when they heard the bell ring. Most of the humans were already in – any who weren’t would have to make a run for it – but his pack would make it on time.

“Go. I’ve got him,” he ordered, lifting Stiles easily. The boy smelled wrong. There was the stench of trash and sugar as well as the scent of sweat. Underneath it all, though, enough that only someone who’d smelled it before would notice, was the smell of sickness.

Derek mentally swore as the others made their way into the school. Glaring at Stiles as though it would resolve things wouldn’t give him any results but Derek couldn’t help but really want to. Instead, he carried Stiles over to the passenger side of his car and sort of shoved his limp form into the seat. After a moment’s hesitation, he fastened the seatbelt to keep him secured and shut the door. He stepped around the front to his seat and gave a slight wave at the security guard who was just coming out of the school before taking off.

As he drove Stiles back home, he considered his options. Stiles was useful to their survival as a whole despite whatever trouble he managed to stir up; He’d proven that time and time again. He was no wolf, but his value, perhaps, lay in that very aspect. There were things that he could do that they could not. He was fairly open-minded when it came to the more typical topics of conversation, but when it came to an enemy, he was the sort to make sure that whatever it was couldn’t come back to haunt or hurt them again. That, he thought wryly, was something he’d learned for certain when he’d learned that Stiles had been willing to kill Jackson to prevent further damage. Of course, there was also that suggestion that Allison aim for his head when they’d been hunting Lydia.

But Stiles overall had very few compunctions when it came to most things. One of them was Peter. That made things a bit difficult, considering Peter was in the best position to ensure the boy’s health. For the time being, anyways. Peter wanted to continue existing within the pack, but Stiles – and Lydia – clearly didn’t like that. While Derek had his own qualms about the whole thing, Peter was family. Maybe his uncle would rip his throat out when he’d relaxed his guard, but considering that he’d done the same to him, Derek figured it would be fair. Of course, Peter had come back to life whereas Derek doubted he’d be able to do the same.

So it was unfortunate, but it was also necessary. Peter had prior experience with panic attacks. He’d been the calm on in their family of hyper, happy werewolves and whenever someone had panicked, he’d been there with his cool hands and soft voice. While they’d never had panic attacks, Derek figured that the trick might work – assuming that Stiles didn’t immediately latch onto the fact that it was _Peter_ and freak out.

But it wasn’t like he could just leave him alone right now and the others were in school, so Peter it was. He looked at the still form strapped into the seat beside him and sighed. From his understanding of these things – which was entirely minimal – Stiles would normally recover quickly (at least according to Scott, but he had no idea how much he could bank on that), but given the kind of stress he’d had over the last few days and where he’d been sleeping, Derek doubted the boy would wake until much later. His body, no doubt, needed the rest.

-

Derek pulled up in front of the Sheriff’s house. His short stay with the man’s son had more or less given him the man’s schedule. The general one, anyways. The man tended to be at work at all hours. There had been plenty of nights that he’d caught Stiles checking the time before finally sighing, often in disappointment. It had been pretty clear that the Sheriff wasn’t home a whole lot. Regardless, Derek had a feeling the man would be home. From what he’d heard, Stiles had been away from home for at least one night. If nothing else, that gave him reason to think that Stiles’ father had already worked out whatever denial he’d been in.

That didn’t mean he wanted to be here and the short walk to the door only reinforced the feeling. He’d only ever broken in through Stiles’ window before, so it was strange to be entering the building he knew so familiarly through the front door for the first time. That was assuming the Sheriff let him in, of course.

He rang the doorbell and stepped back, making himself fully visible through the peephole. He kept his hands at his sides, clearly empty. Unsure what condition the man was in emotionally (though he suspected), the werewolf decided it was better to err, in this case, on the side of caution when it came to the law.

After a few moments, he couldn’t help but frown slightly as he rang the bell again. The man was home – so why wasn’t he responding? Derek scowled at the door when he realized that the Sheriff was choosing to ignore the outside world. The man was no doubt wallowing in his own misery as he thought of his son.

“Sheriff Stilinski,” he called sharply as he knocked again. “I’m here about your son.” This time, Derek was pleased to note, there was a reaction, though he doubted any regular human would have picked up on it. There was the faint clink of something falling over – a bottle, perhaps? – and a quiet moan. On the other hand, he couldn’t detect any other movement. Frowning at the door, Derek punched the door before ringing the doorbell again, this time three quick jabs in succession. “Sheriff, I know you’re in there!” he called. “If you don’t answer this door, I’ll have to go back and tell Stiles that his father didn’t care enough to get the door!”

He waited a few more moments and was rewarded when the door swung open, the Sheriff leaning precariously against it as he demanded, somewhat despairingly, “What do you want?”

A quick look at the man had Derek scowling again. The man stank of alcohol and sweat and his forehead glistened in the light. He clearly hadn’t been sober for the larger portion of Stiles’ time away. Whatever his intentions had been when he’d kicked Stiles out, he clearly felt that he’d received the raw end of the deal. For a moment, Derek found himself despising the man. While he no doubt loved his son, it was apparent that he couldn’t handle any of the thoughts or feelings that he experienced regarding him. And he was drunk.

Though Derek had originally been planning to be cordial and respectful – considering this man had _arrested_ him, it only made sense – but he mentally balled up whatever ideas he’d had and tossed them into the metaphorical trash can.

“Stiles is at my place right now,” Derek said bluntly. “He had a panic attack and passed out at school earlier today when the others asked him why he was sleeping on the streets.” He watched, finding a small measure of satisfaction in the way the man that stood before him turned white before straightening. “Before you ask, let me tell you,” he continued, his voice perhaps a bit fierce: “Stiles is _not_ alright.”

The Sheriff caught and stopped a sound before it so much as left his throat, but Derek caught it – Derek _knew_. He’d made the sound himself years ago, quiet and in the dark with none but his comatose uncle while his sister went to gather their things.

“Come in,” Stiles’ father said gruffly, stepping back to give him room to step past. “Do I want to know why _you_ of all people are the one coming here to tell me this?”

“I don’t know,” Derek returned evenly as he headed for the kitchen. “Do you?” He didn’t bother to hide that he clearly knew the house’s layout. He saw that the table was covered over in files, a glass of whiskey and a tumbler on the folder and frowned. Upon getting a closer look, he couldn’t help but tense momentarily when he realized that the files were his family’s from a time he remembered as being marked in heat and smoke.

The drink marked the Sheriff’s seat, so he fell into the one opposite it. “I need you to tell me what happened,” he said, gesturing to the man’s seat. The Sheriff sat, still watching him suspiciously.

“And why should I tell you anything?” the man demanded.

That was a question he and Peter had anticipated, especially considering the nature of his previous altercations with the man. “Simple: I’ve got your son in my bed in my house. He was living I don’t even know where and smelled a lot like a dumpster.” Derek fixed the man with a glare before adding, “If you didn’t give a damn, you wouldn’t have let me in. Now talk.”

The man sighed and it seemed that all the fight had gone out of him. He slumped in his seat and reached for the glass of whiskey as he started speaking. “It started a few months back,” he said before draining the tumbler and setting it down again. “Stiles was really excited when he came home and I was so proud of him – so damned proud – when he told me he was finally going to be playing in one of the games at his school. Lacrosse, you know. He’s decent at it, but he never really got a chance to play.”

Derek hadn’t been expecting this – an outpouring of details. He’d expected something simple – cut, clean, and over with. He’d guessed that they’d had a falling out.

He’d never realized that _he_ was the cause, even in so small a way. He’d never considered that the reason Stiles was living on the streets for even a day was because he’d decided that Stiles would go with him to check the computer Scott’s mother had allegedly sent a text from. Frozen for the first time in a while, he listened as the man continued.

“I worked a few extra shifts that week just so I could go and see him play. He’d never been first string before, even temporarily. I was so happy for him – I told all the officers that my son – _my boy_ – was going to be playing. I went early to get a good spot right up in front of the field – I got a corndog and everything. Can’t tell you how much of a kick in the teeth it was when I realized the game was starting and Stiles wasn’t even _there_ much less on the field.”

The flood of words continued to pass into him as the Sheriff spoke. It was as though a dam had broken and all of the pent up thoughts and feelings were spilling out – and Derek was the river so he had to just _take_ it, all of these feelings that he’d unwittingly caused secondhand. But he was responsible for this moment now and while he couldn’t do anything about what had already occurred, he would listen and do his damnedest to fix this. While he might not be solely responsible for this mess, he wasn’t naïve enough to think he didn’t have some part in it, no matter how large or small.

So he listened to the Sheriff speak and he heard about how the man had been confused and hurt – how he’d been disappointed and unsure. He heard about the way the Sheriff had noticed Stiles’ becoming distant as he began leaving the house at all hours of the day and night, running out on father-son moments and dinners that he himself had engineered. He heard about the way the Sheriff had noticed Stiles’ lying and how it had gone from little white lies to bigger lies, and how he’d resented the lies and tried to understand what was happening to his son. He heard about the suspicions the Sheriff had about him and Scott, Isaac, and the others – even Lydia. He heard about how the way the Sheriff and Stiles had begun to edge around each other and slowly begun to avoid each other. He heard about how the Sheriff finally had taken Stiles aside and demanded answers and only gotten more lies – and how when pressed Stiles had finally said that it was bigger than him and that he couldn’t say anything. He heard about the way the Sheriff would come home sometimes and find the emergency kit on the kitchen counter but find it refilled and put away in the morning and how he’d find the rolls of gauze and bandage and see the bruises on his son’s skin. He heard about the ultimatum the father had finally laid down for his son and the way the son had chosen to leave.

Perhaps more crucial, however, was that Derek understood what had happened in a slowly building, almost stabbing, and painfully obvious clarity. Guilt struck and poured into the crucible that was his shell, but he shoved it aside. This wasn’t some stupid teenage rebellion at all – it wasn’t some stupid bullshit that he might’ve pulled in his youth, _before._

When Stiles’ father finally stopped speaking and simply stared at the tumbler in his hands, Derek couldn’t help but curse himself for his unthinking stupidity. He didn’t know why in the hell he’d ever thought Stiles could stay normal and then he immediately hated himself for his willing obliviousness when he realized all the ways Stiles had changed – had been _forced_ to change – for the pack.

This was all _his_ fault.

He rose to his feet and the Sheriff looked up at him, eyes guarded and oddly hopeful at the same time. Derek knew he had to say _something_ , but didn’t know what. Matching the Sheriff’s gaze with his own as he struggled for the right words, he finally decided to keep things simple. Clearly things were far further from under control than he’d originally thought. He needed to discuss this with Peter and the pack. And Stiles.

“Thank you for your time,” he said, swallowing hard. “I’ll keep Stiles with me for the time being. You’re right – there’s a lot going on that you don’t know about, but Stiles should never have been placed in that position. That’s my fault, so I’ll take responsibility for it. I’ll keep him safe until you two can work things out.” The _until I can fix things_ that sounded in his head remained unspoken.


	3. If love's a fight, then I shall die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologies and angst go hand in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I must've scrapped this at least four or five times trying to redo it. There's still a chunk here that I completely yanked out because I think it'll work better elsewhere. On another note, I've also re-outlined this whole thing, but I've yet to break it down into chapters, so I'll be updating that once I've got it figured out. Sorry for the slow going, guys. It's been a super long time since I've so much as attempted a chapter story. Sorry again for the short length.

Stiles wakes with his head pounding and bright sparks appearing on the backs of his eyelids; his body feels heavy and there’s a feeling of dry and too hot that he can’t quite explain. He opens his eyes and forces himself to sit up, to throw the sheets back, and to stand. He doesn’t have a plan. Not really. He starts towards the door, but doesn’t manage the third step before he has to stop, dizzy. The world is teetering around him and it takes him a moment to realize it’s not the world, but _him._ His balance is shot and the pounding in his head is even worse.

But still, he’s got to go. He has to get to class, has to get moving. Do something. Pretend that everything’s okay when it’s really not – that he’s not in Derek’s room, in the house they all sometimes took refuge in when things got to be a bit too much.

Hell, maybe this _is_ too much.

Only Stiles can’t accept that, because there’s no such thing. He’s held onto things this long, held them close to his chest as he suffocated at home in order to protect his friends. By the time the world’s stopped spinning quite so quickly, he takes another few steps before again having to take a break. He wonders if he might’ve been better off crawling.

He closes his eyes as he lets himself crumble to the floor, a quiet thump. No one human would’ve noticed it, but werewolves would. He didn’t know who was here, who was conscious and awake and aware of him, but he knew that at least one person was; as bad as they were about getting into trouble, they were pretty good at keeping people on clean up duty and Stiles? Stiles was a mess. 

The door creaks open and he opens his eyes, turning his head to see Derek. His heart stops before starting to beat again, going double time in his chest as though to make up for its mistake.

Scott is behind him.

“D’rek?” he slurs out and he’s shocked. Shocked and frightened and how had he not managed that one single word? Bracing his hands against the floorboards, he starts to get up, but he needn’t have bothered. He’s only just started moving before the alpha werewolf has lifted him up and gently tossed him back onto the bed. Derek’s bed.

“You need to rest,” Scott says earnestly, coming to sit at the foot of the bed. “Peter says you probably didn’t drink enough water and you’re gonna feel like you’re sick – like that time back in third grade – and you’re going to need to stay still for a while so your body can fix itself.”

Huh, maybe they _were_ still bros. Had to be if Scott had known what he wanted to ask before he’d been able to try forming the words.

“Cool,” he says. “School?”

“Your father called in a family emergency.” Derek speaks quietly, but his presence isn’t lessened for it. He pulls the covers back over Stiles’ body, momentarily dislodging Scott. “I went and spoke to him after I brought you back here.”

And here again, Stiles froze. Damn it all. He’d pushed that to the back of his mind, somehow ignoring the larger problems in favor of the smaller, more immediate objectives.

“I owe you an apology,” Derek says then, his voice even quieter still despite – or perhaps because of – its gentle pitch.

Stiles stares.

So does Scott.

“What? What the hell are you talking about, dude? No one told me to go and live on the streets – that was my choice,” he blurts, a bit dumbfounded. Oh, hey look – words! All strung together and everything. Look, complete sentences!

And here Derek’s face does this complicated sort of flickering thing that Stiles has only seen it do when they’ve started talking about Peter or family or when he thinks no one else is paying attention and he _knows_ Derek thinks this is his fault. Knows the moron has gone and taken responsibility for something he had no control over.

“Hey, no, this isn’t your fault,” he protests, pausing to cough, because there was a growing scratchiness in the back of his throat and maybe that was why people usually went to get water when they were sick, but really, he had a point to make. “Dad would’ve let me stay – I was the one who left.”

“Because of us,” Derek says, his voice laden with that extra weight that makes it sound like he’s gritting his teeth when he’s not. “Because we’re werewolves.”

“Because you’re my friends,” Stiles corrects. Scott stands momentarily to pull a bottle of water from his pocket and hands it over before getting comfortable again. Stiles nods to him before uncapping the thing and guzzling the lukewarm water.

Almost immediately, the ache in his head lessens.

Well, not a whole lot. It ached a little less is all, by maybe a hair or two. God, he could use some ibuprofen or something.

“It doesn’t matter,” Derek says. “You shouldn’t have been put in that position. It was an oversight on my end – I should’ve been paying attention.”

“Only there’s no way for you to know what’s going through my Dad’s head,” Stiles counters. He glances at Scott, wondering what his best friend’s take on all of this is. It’s a surprisingly somber expression. It’s not the confused look that he gets when he doesn’t understand what’s going on, but it’s not the frustrated look he gets when he’s thrown himself against a problem repeatedly either.

“C’mon, dude, help me out,” he says before sucking down the rest of the water. His stomach sloshes uncomfortably, but evens out a bit when he shifts his head back, straightening out his spine.

“We should’ve seen it coming,” Scott says, voice apologetic. Stiles winced – he’d heard Scott apologizing a lot lately, but that particular tone he’d heard very few times in their shared lives. Only six times, in fact. Once when they were eight and Scott had accidentally broken Stiles’ Spiderman toy, twice during puberty when Scott was apologizing for growing faster than Stiles (as though he could help it, because _come on, it’s_ puberty, _Scott!)_ , and twice over Allison. And now.

“No,” Stiles says firmly, wincing when it makes his head pound that much harder. “No. My bad decisions are mine. You two don’t get to take responsibility for every stupid idea that goes through my head. We’ve gone over this before, remember?”

“Stiles, your father threw you out because you couldn’t tell him about us. About werewolves,” Derek says. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

And really that could mean a lot – anything from, ‘why didn’t you tell us your Dad was going batshit over this?’ to ‘why didn’t you say that’s why your Dad threw you out?’ to ‘why didn’t you ask to tell him?’

“There wasn’t any point,” Stiles chokes out. “He’s my _Dad_ ,” he says helplessly, as though it explains everything. But looking at Scott and Derek and the way they both kind of look helpless, too, he thinks they get it. “I don’t want him getting pulled into this stuff, you know? What the hell am I going to tell him? Hey, Dad, by the way I’ve been going out and being a really shitty son because I’ve been killing the things that try to eat the people of Beacon Hills?”

“Better than having him see it in front of him,” Scott says, his eyes doing that thing that makes Stiles think of puppies and all things beseeching and adorable.

“No way, man. I’m not a wolfy creature of the night and I won’t be any time soon,” Stiles says firmly. He stares at the ceiling because it’s a safe bet and he won’t have to look at anyone else and because laying down makes it easy.

“What do you want to do?” Derek sighs out. “Your Dad knows you’re with me, at least, but are you going to go home?” Stiles is already shaking his head, so Derek continues. “Then you’re going to stay here, with me and Peter and Isaac until we can get this sorted out. You can stay in here.” He pauses, shifting his weight back and forth before sighing. “Do you want me to get anything from your room?” he asks. “Maybe give a message to your Dad?”

Stiles immediately thinks of his laptop and printer before the last question stops him cold and he freezes. Still, he thinks about things the pack might need and says, “I just… Could you get my laptop? There’s some information on it. And the books Deaton gave me? Maybe some clothes?”

Derek nods and starts striding over to the door when Stiles’ voice cracks to request, “And… just. Tell him I’m sorry for me? I’m sorry I couldn’t be the son he wanted.” Both of the werewolves flinch at that, but he doesn’t see it because he’s staring determinedly at the ceiling.

“Stiles, you’re not—”

“Save it, Scott,” Stiles says firmly. “I’m going to try and sleep some more, okay?”

And they know he’s lying, but they also know – even Scott, god bless his heart – when to leave a man to himself. They leave, the door creaking just as loudly closing as it did when opening and Stiles doesn’t cry, but he doesn’t sleep either. He just stares at the ceiling and hates himself for being so weak. His head aches and aches and he wishes he had some more water, but instead he closes his eyes because the light hurts and sleep steals into his body again.

So maybe not so much a liar after all.

-

The next time he wakes, he sees a neat little pile of things – all his – just past the door in the room: his laptop, the charging cord, the charging cord for his phone, some books, and the little orange bottle of pills that would probably make his life infinitely better once he took one. He stumbles out of bed, half tripping, and reaches for the bottle, quickly opening it and taking his dosage, swallowing it dry. He’s still shaking, a bit, but he knows it’ll go away soon now that he’s able to resupply his body with the Adderall it needed.

His backpack is there, too, some homework and project rubrics there for him to salvage. His notes are there, too, which will be useful. Also, some shirts and two pairs of jeans. He empties the bag for anything else, but is a bit confused by the lack of boxers.

“Huh,” he blinks at his bounty. Maybe Derek normally went commando or something and didn’t think to put any underwear in there. Or socks, for that matter. “Huh.”

But still, he’s grateful, and he says, “Thanks, Derek,” into the empty room, knowing that from elsewhere in the house, their alpha wolf would hear him. 


End file.
